The Venusian Gambit (25 page)

Weatherby did his best not to scowl at Wellesley. “The general is, of course, an exceptional tactician, and I do believe we can provide his foothold in the south with but a few of our ships. Meanwhile, the bulk of the fleet can make for Venus and easily eradicate the rest of the French fleet. From there, we can even return to provide support as needed, whereas they will have none. And it is quite well proven that our facility upon sea or Void is far superior to theirs. Best to crush them on Venus, or in the Void, rather than in the Channel or the North Sea, where they then might simply escape to the Continent and resupply. Sire, I urge—”

“Enough!” George cried, placing his hands to his ears. “I have had enough of both of you!” This silenced both commanders long enough for the Prince Regent to produce a letter from his coat pocket. “Do either of you know what this is?”

Wellesley stared with furrowed brow, but Weatherby recognized the large, looping script upon the page. “It is from the Xan, I take it.”

“Yes, from the damnable Saturn-dwellers! And they have the temerity to tell me how and when they shall assist us, and upon what conditions. Your friend Vellusk,” the prince raged, focusing on Weatherby, “says there may be a way to counteract the alchemy that has raised the
Corps Éternel
, but he says his people may require particular plants and other obscure alchemical items from Venus. Lord Weatherby, I swear to you, if you are somehow complicit in this, or your wife for that matter, I shall execute you for treason. I swear I shall behead you myself.”

Weatherby was taken aback by the Prince Regent’s anger, and more so by the obscured truth of his words. And so he set his course upon the most dangerous course of his life. “I swear to you, sire, upon my life and those of my family, that while Vellusk and I may both seek the Green Planet, he has not shared the contents of this letter with me.”

This was, of course, a true statement in the narrowest of definitions, as Weatherby was in another room whilst Vellusk wrote his letter. But in the spirit of his prince’s question, Weatherby felt he well and truly lied and sinned, and could but hope that it was for the greater good.

Prince George’s eyes narrowed. “And so I shall take you at your word, as you have served with naught but honor and success. But on your head be it, Thomas. I must now acquiesce to the Xan’s requests in order to garner their aid, and I will not stand for any betrayal or deviancies on their part. This Venusian gambit of yours had best bear fruit, and quickly.” Wellesley made to speak, but George silenced him with but a look, one of fire and fury barely contained. “Now, Lord Weatherby, you have thirty-two ships of the line currently blockading England and defending Scotland and Ireland, correct?”

“Yes, sire,” Weatherby responded quietly. “At least twice as many more frigates, brigs and sloops as well.”

George put his hands upon the council table and studied the maps carefully thereupon. “Very well. We will need every ship that can carry men southward. I can spare you
Victory
and four other ships of the line, along with a half-dozen smaller ships for your fleet. There can be no more. If you cannot move the French from Venus with this, or the odds are stacked too greatly against you, I expect you to return to Earth and England forthwith to aid in the recapture of our home. Do I make myself clear, my Lord Admiral?”

Too few! All too few!
Weatherby thought. But there truly was nothing for it. “I will either claim victory or return to assist Sir Arthur in his campaign, sire. I promise you.”

“Then you will immediately prepare for your departure. Send me another admiral so we may continue our preparations for the assault on England, and be sure the defense of Edinburgh and Glasgow are well in hand before you go,” the Prince Regent ordered.

“By your leave then, Your Highness, I shall send you Admiral Saumarez forthwith,” Weatherby said as his picked up his hat. “God save you and King George.”

To Weatherby’s great surprise, the prince offered his hand. “I know not what strange workings are afoot with the Xan and Venus, but I do trust you, Thomas. Destroy the French fleet, gather what the Xan require and hurry back to us safely.”

Weatherby took his prince’s hand with gratitude. “I shall.” He turned to Wellesley, but found the general pointedly studying the maps upon the table, and so took his leave without further word.

Outside the chamber, he found Philip waiting for him. “Well?”

“We are to make for Venus with but a handful of ships,” Weatherby said without breaking stride, forcing Philip to rush to keep up. “And so we shall likely face a French fleet at least three times our size in the Void, making keel-fall nearly impossible. Then there’s the trek through the jungle to the memory vault, held by a race of beings that may or may not be amenable to our presence there. And of course, Berthollet and Cagliostro will likely have surmised our intentions and have a veritable army waiting for us.”

Philip took all this in for a few moments. “So this is somewhat worse than usual then, Father?”

Weatherby grinned. “Only slightly. How fares Dr. Finch?”

At this, Philip’s humor quickly waned. “We have placed
The Book of the Dead
in a container we believe will isolate its mystical properties from its surroundings. And indeed, we have seen Uncle Andrew regain some of his color and vitality. Naturally, that makes us loath to study it further. And Ambassador Vellusk insists Mother and I should not conduct any researches until the book is away from Earth, lest it somehow release energies that either harm living beings or strengthen the French forces.”

Weatherby nodded. “That seems prudent. And as for ‘Uncle’ Andrew, damn him, he shall not set eyes upon it again.”

Philip stopped and took Weatherby’s arm in hand. “Father, please, a word about Andrew.”

With consternation, Weatherby looked around to ensure no others were about in the palace corridor. “There is little more to be said, Philip. I have decided.”

“But Uncle Andrew managed to contain the book’s energies, and learned from them, for more than a decade,” Philip protested quietly and reasonably. “There are none others alive, except for Berthollet, who know such lore as well as he. He has made some remarkable advances in the Great Work through his research.”

“And he lied to me,” Weatherby snapped. “To my
face
, Philip. How can I countenance this?”

“Father,” Philip said gently. “He believed the course before him required secrecy and, yes, deception. And for a decade, no one else has so much as seen the book. He has protected its secrets from our enemies and sought to use them on behalf of England. Has he not been by your side since Egypt?”

“He lied,” Weatherby said simply, though the conviction of his words was on the wane.

“And this is different from the course you just set for yourself now, with the Prince Regent?” Philip asked, gently enough so that Weatherby heard his beloved wife’s voice in his.

And so the protest died before it was brought to the old admiral’s lips. “By God, you are your mother’s son.”

Philip smirked, another echo of Anne in his face. “And I am as much yours as well, for your example is a fine one indeed.”

Weatherby clasped his shoulder. “Thank you, Philip. Now go make preparations to depart. Since Dr. Finch, either by taint of illness or suspicion, cannot remain my fleet alchemist, I am appointing you to the position in his stead. Report to
Victory
and ensure all is in order. When I’ve ascertained the composition of the rest of our squadron, I will send you the names so you may prepare those ships as well.”

Philip blinked with surprise. “But I’ve no training at this, my Lord. I’m not even in the Navy!”

“You are now,” Weatherby quipped. “You may appoint an assistant, and I’ve no doubt you will have your mother on hand as well. Go. You have work to do.”

Philip straightened up and made a salute that, admittedly, would’ve had a midshipman whipped, then departed quickly. Shaking his head, Weatherby watched him go wistfully. There was a time when he was that young, and the responsibilities of command were a joy, not a burden.

Those times were long past, it seemed.

Weatherby made his way to the wing of the old castle in which he and his family and retinue were housed, stopping at a door that was locked from the outside—Finch’s quarters. There were two Marines stationed there as well, and they smartly snapped to attention as he approached. Weatherby nodded, and one of them produced a key and unlocked the door, opening it so that he might enter.

Inside, Weatherby found Finch lolling on the bed, one leg dangling off, his clothing disheveled. For a moment, Weatherby’s mind flashed back to their very first meeting, having discovered Finch in a decrepit boarding house upon Elizabeth Mercuris, drugged on Venusian extracts and wholly unsuited to his assignment as alchemist aboard HMS
Daedalus
.

But Finch was reading now, rather than inhaling from a hookah. And his color had improved substantially since then, and even somewhat from a few days prior.

“Thomas!” Finch cried with delight, slamming the book closed and scrambling to his feet. “Thank God you’re here. Sit with me and let me explain.”

Weatherby held up his hand. “No, Doctor. Not this time.”

“But, Tom! I am the same Andrew you’ve always known. Surely this is naught but a mistake. I apologize for keeping you in the dark, of course.”

“In the dark?” Weatherby shouted. “You lied to me, damn you! You earned my trust, time and again, and then for a decade—a full decade or more!—you have concealed the truth. Lied to my very face. Sat upon a treasure we may have used to liberate England years ago!”

Finch’s face took a hard turn. “And who would have used it? The Prince Regent? He would’ve created his own fell abominations to fight the French, as you well know! Wellesley? He’d gladly lead an army of revenants if it brought him glory! You, Tom? What would you have done? Would you have used the book in such a way? And if the French made further strides, would you have met them? Would you have condemned the world to darkness and allowed the very Underworld to seep into the land of the living?”

Weatherby grabbed Finch by his shirt. “I don’t know, damn you! I don’t know! But you never gave me the choice, did you? No! You never sought my counsel! You never allowed me yours! Do you not see it? What might we have done together, years ago, had you but trusted me in the way I trusted you? We will never know! And now, because of you, I’ve broken all my oaths to King and Country so that we may make one final, impossible effort at stopping a war we may have already long ended!”

Weatherby released Finch with a shove, and the latter man had no words with which to reply. Instead he stood, hurt and angry and dismayed, and the two stared at each other for what seemed an eternity.

Finally, the admiral spoke once more. “Due to illness, you are no longer my fleet alchemist. Philip, the Count St. Germain, has taken your position. You will be brought aboard
Victory
so that Philip may aid you in regaining your health. Do you understand me?”

“I do,” Finch said, defeated.

“Once aboard and once we are assured of your health once more, you will aid the Count and his duly appointed representatives, likely including the Lady Weatherby and Ambassador Vellusk, by telling them all you know of the book, and of the researches you have conducted with it. All of it, without omission. If I find you have withheld anything more at this juncture, I will court-martial you and, if you are found guilty, I will sentence you to hang upon the yardarm. I will do this by my own hand if need be. Do you really,
truly
understand me now?”

An errant tear escaped Finch’s eye as he nodded. “I see you clearly, Tom. And I am truly sorry.”

Weatherby shook his head. “I have chosen a life of service to England, Andrew. My life
is
pain, save for when I am ashore with my wife and daughter and step-son. Do not apologize to me. Think instead of those thousands who have perished defending England while you hid the book in your sea chest all this time. Think of what a wiser course of action may have done, and then make your apologies to the ghosts of the fallen.”

Before Finch could respond, Weatherby turned on his heel and stalked out the door, nearly colliding with his daughter.

“Father!” she said with a smile. “You must mind your step, lest you trample all before you. I—” Her kindly jibe immediately faded upon seeing his face. “My God, what is it?”

Weatherby opened his mouth to speak, but a wave of sadness washed over him, and he could not find his voice. Seeing this, Elizabeth took his hand and guided him to the family’s sitting room, where she gently placed him upon a couch and sat next to him in silence, his hand remaining in hers.

And there they sat for a long while, with silent tears streaming down Weatherby’s face, with only his daughter’s presence keeping him from a totality of gloom and anguish.

CHAPTER 14

January 26, 2135

A
s it happened, Shaila hated being on a ship she wasn’t flying.

Having been the pilot and second-in-command of
Armstrong
for a year, she found it oddly annoying not to have a ship’s holocontrols at her fingertips. She wasn’t even technically in the chain of command, since she and the rest of DAEDALUS were officially passengers aboard
Hadfield
as it zoomed toward Venus at maximum speed. Some kid named Baines was at the controls; Shaila had no idea who he was, and he looked way,
way
too young to be flying anything with wings, let alone a state-of-the-art mid-system ship like
Hadfield
.

But Diaz had her seconded to DAEDALUS for “the extent of the current mission,” which meant that she was basically off the books as far as Joint Space Command was concerned. Shaila was kind of surprised at how quickly and efficiently Diaz had not just become the head of a completely black-ops program, but how she seemed to embody the role as if she were born for it. And maybe that was it, that Diaz was really the woman you wanted in charge when the shit hit the fan. Shaila thought so.